Back To You

I know it was me. I'm the one who left. I'm the one who went to someone new. But I'm begging you to let me come back to you.

I left because I was young, and seduced by the possibilities out there. You were too simple, too plain, too ordinary. I wanted to taste glamour, experience another culture and immerse myself in all the opportunities - whether it was old-school sophistication and elegance or the shiny brashness of something younger. I left because I was silly enough to believe that YOU weren't enough. I felt I could get better, and in my arrogance believed that we didn't fit well together.

I was so wrong. My heart belongs - has ALWAYS belonged - to you. I'll be honest and say you're not the most beautiful of my dalliances. Others have stunned me with their sheer splendour - whether natural or aided by man's many great inventions. And you're not the most savvy or complex or dynamic. But there's something undefinable that keeps me coming back.

I've cheated on you with many many cities, but Nairobi... if you'll have me, I'd like to come back to you.

A Night Like This

A year ago, it was a night very much like this one. The sky was clear and seemed so near that I felt that if I reached up high enough I could glide my fingers over it, and maybe polish it with a washcloth in the hope of getting the smattering of stars to twinkle just a little brighter. The breeze was as cold, teasing my loose hair and pasting a few wayward strands on lips that were sticky - partly from my lip balm, and partly from the sweet hot dark chocolate I was drinking to warm me up. The crowd was similar - a cacophony of groups of light-footed friends, cuddly couples and young families with heavy-lidded children. The gifted singer-guitarist on stage last year was different, however. Last year the songs were about love and heartache - my cloudy mind errantly connected them to angst and emotions so big they exploded out of me and blinded me to the joys and happy truths surrounding me. They fuelled my self-pity, and my silly heart lapped up the words and melodies and continued on it's downward spiral - encouraging it's wounds to bleed and bleed and bleed... discouraging them from healing. It was as though it didn't want to mend.

Tonight, the man on stage sings simply - of love and life and loving life. And once again my fickle heart feels a resonance to THIS gentleman's music.

On a night like this one, what feels like a long time ago, not only was the man on stage different, but so was I. Tonight we are about hope and healing and love and joy.

Fifteen minutes

I pledged to myself, and a dear few, that I'd write daily for at least fifteen minutes... This was probably about fifteen weeks ago if not more. The pledge was well-meaning... I enjoy it, it's cathartic, and a few out there tell me they DO enjoy reading what I write (I'm wary of believing this, but I kind of do, too).

So let me be clear. I thought about it. Several times. I bought a cute notebook, and carried around a fancy pen (it's purple and sparkly) I received as a gift. Took it on my little excursions around the city, on the metro, on the bus, to work, on my flights, and it was ALWAYS on my mind. I'd think about what I'd write, how silly it would be, how I'd be too lazy to rewrite it, how something clever and funny might creep in and startle and delight me. I thought about what beverage I'd have, or what music I'd listen to while I wrote. If I was in public, I'd wonder what people would think if I whipped out my cute book and started jotting down furiously. I got worried in chilly weather, wondering if my fingers would cramp up from the cold and lack of practise and whether they could keep up with my very quick thoughts (yes, am laughing too at the thought of me being a quick thinker).

Then it occurred to me, that if what I wrote passed muster, I might want to upload it on my blog. I realised I'd have to then type it out. So I decided to save my writing for the most part when I was home, and forgot to carry my cute notebook everywhere. I'd think about what I'd write as I washed the dishes, my hair, my clothes or just sat online downloading movies, and read other people's writing. And again the speed worried me. What if my typing speed was too slow? Or if my computer crashed (it's in its last stages) and I lost a whole heap of really phenomenal writing (I'm laughing too)? Also I'm missing a 'W' key, and it always takes a little more effort when I have to type something using that letter. I worried about prose that might have too many 'W's and hamper the flow of my amazing thoughts that I just HAD to share with the world.

After a rather long time I realised I was procrastinating, and had to dig into why. I discovered I was worried I'd continue ranting (which is why I paused my writing for a while... I got a bit sick of being so whiny), and then I worried words would fail me... as they have started doing, and it scared me. I tried a few times, and well... the results were inane and rubbish and a bit of a snooze-fest (even more than this, if you're still being kind enough to read), but after much deliberation and a selflessness that didn't want to put crap out there into cyberspace, I decided: screw selflessness, I'm going to try and write anyway (there's enough crap out there in the world wide web for mine to feel quite comfortable) - in the hope that practise will make me better. For your sake more than mine.

Fifteen minutes. Day one.